One Certain Thing
by Miss Becky
Summary: [From Hell] The day Abberline's wife dies, Godley makes a promise.


One Certain Thing  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to From Hell, except a copy of the DVD.  
  
Pre-film. The day Abberline's wife dies, Godley makes a promise.  
  
****  
  
Godley grabs his hat, the one he hates to wear, bellows a good-bye to his wife and the screaming children in the kitchen, and opens the door.  
  
And stops in shock. Standing on his porch, wearing only a white shirt and waistcoat against the winter cold, is his superior officer and friend, Fred Abberline. He is paler than usual, and looks vaguely surprised to see Godley, like he's not quite sure how he ended up here.  
  
"Fred?" Godley cannot imagine why the man is standing on his porch. Or how long he has been here. He fumbles behind him, pushes the door open, and beckons inside. "Come in?" He doesn't like that uncertain note in his voice, making the command into a question, but something is wrong here, very wrong.  
  
Abberline follows him into the house without a word. Somewhere in the back of the house, Godley's daughters shriek with laughter, and Abberline flinches.  
  
"What is it?" Godley asks.  
  
"Victoria," Abberline says. Just that one word.  
  
And Godley knows. Abberline's appearance here can mean only one thing. "Oh Jesus," he whispers.  
  
"They told me it was a son," Abberline continues. He is staring at the wall, his dark eyes unfocused. "But they wouldn't let me see it." He pauses. "Him."  
  
"I'm so sorry," Godley says. He passes a hand over his eyes. "Jesus."  
  
Normally in situations like this he has a quote ready, a line someone else wrote. He uses their words to express what he feels, because his own words are not good enough. But today, right now, there are no words that will suffice.  
  
He remembers the day they were wed, how they all laughed. Dancing with Victoria was like dancing with air, she was so light and graceful. He had been just a beat cop then, and Abberline only a sergeant still, promotions and raises far in the future. His oldest daughter had danced by herself in the corner, carefully smearing cake down the front of her linen dress with all the solemnity of her three years. Abberline had picked her up, not caring that he got chocolate on his suit, and announced that one day he would have four daughters and five sons, making Victoria laugh so hard she nearly spilled her drink.  
  
And now she was dead.  
  
"There's going to be a service tomorrow," Abberline says. He sways slightly. "A service," he repeats.  
  
Godley takes off his coat and drapes it over his friend's shoulders. The coat dwarfs Abberline's thin frame, puddles on the floor. "I'm going to take you home," he says. "And don't you worry about Warren. I'll handle him."  
  
He leads Abberline out the door, onto the porch, down the steps, onto the sidewalk. He raises his hand, hailing a carriage. From the day they were first partnered, Abberline has been the mentor, but Godley has been the protector. There is steel in the Inspector, but there is also a vulnerability that is far too exposed. Some of it, Godley knows, comes from the visions, and the horrors Abberline sees when he closes his eyes, but not all.  
  
Not all.  
  
****  
  
That night he returns to Abberline's flat, to the place that cannot properly be called a home anymore. He left Abberline there in the morning with a sharp admonishment not to do anything stupid.  
  
But the door is ajar, and Godley frowns. He pushes it open. "Fred?"  
  
George, the dog, hops off a chair and waddles over to greet him. Godley pets him absently, his eyes scanning the room. "Fred?"  
  
The men at the Yard were sympathetic, and after some bullying from Godley, most of them have said they will show up at the funeral tomorrow. They don't quite know what to make of Abberline, and rumors fly about his unorthodox approach to solving a case. Only his incredible success rate keeps them from turning on him. Godley doesn't care about that right now. He only wants to help his friend. "Fred?"  
  
But he knows it is useless. Abberline is not here.  
  
So he waits. The flat smells empty, and Godley shifts uncomfortably on the couch. He has been here several times before, and until now he has not realized how much depended on Victoria. She had made this place a home, filling it with her pictures and plants, always smiling at her guests. She had always made him feel welcome, always asked after his wife and daughters. Godley had loved her wholeheartedly.  
  
He has to wait several hours, but at last he hears footsteps in the hall. They are uneven, and there are great pauses between each one. Godley stands up quickly, his heart giving an ugly leap in his chest. He does not have visisns, like Abberline does, but he suddenly has one now. He is painfully certain that Abberline has been out drinking, wandered down the wrong street, and gotten himself mugged and beaten for his carelessness.  
  
He is so convinced of this that when Abberline appears in the door, for a moment Godley actually sees blood on his face. Then he blinks, and the blood is gone. There is only Abberline, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes glazed and vacant. One hand clutches a dark green bottle. "Peter?"  
  
Godley scowls. Relief gives way to anger. "Where the hell have you been?"  
  
Abberline lifts his chin, as though to make a profound statement. "I caught it," he says in triumph.  
  
"You caught what?" Godley asks. There is a strange smell emanating from the Inspector, one he knows he ought to know, but cannot place.  
  
"The dragon," Abberline says.  
  
"Oh Jesus," mutters Godley.  
  
"Not him," Abberline responds. He manages to take one step into the room before his knees buckle and he drops to the floor.  
  
Now Godley recognizes the smell. Opium. Abberline has been in an opium den. "Christ," he says. He marches forward, grabs Abberline by the arms, and hauls the Inspector to his feet. As he does, he sees the label on the bottle in Abberline's hand.  
  
"Laudanum, too?" He grabs the bottle and tosses it onto the chair. "You've really got this planned out, don't you?" He stands up, taking Abberline with him.  
  
Abberline's head drops forward. He tries, unsuccessfully, to get his feet under him. "I can't," he slurs. "I just wanted to see her again."  
  
Godley sighs. He should have known.  
  
With a firm arm about Abberline's shoulders, he guides the younger man to the couch. Abberline falls onto it in a loose sitting posture, his arms spread, his hands resting palm-up on the cushions. He tilts his head back. He stares up at the blank ceiling.  
  
Godley clears his throat and looks away. The pain in Abberline's eyes is too intense. He can't bear to look at it. Seeing that pain, he doesn't know how Abberline is still alive, why the Inspector didn't follow his wife into oblivion.  
  
But one thing he does know. This will never happen again. Today is an aberration, something strange that happened the day Victoria died, never to happen again. Godley intends to make damn sure of that. He won't let Abberline wander into any more opium dens, and there will be no more bottles of laudanum. It starts and it ends tonight.  
  
He is certain of that.  
  
****  
  
END  
  
Author's Note: The idea that Godley has a family, and that Abberline wanted one, comes from listening to Robbie Coltrane's commentary on the DVD. 


End file.
